For The Wicked (Fantasy Heights) (15 page)

“Problem,” she said. “We just got a system alert. The night guard looking after Nicole and Ridley missed a check-in.”

Thomas readjusted his grip on the wheel. Ever since Jerod’s shenanigans, the guards were supposed to check in every fifteen minutes. Admittedly, it was a brutally tight interval. They’d done a good job so far but it was inevitable they should miss one. “Did you try calling?”

“Of course. The call’s going straight to voicemail. Totally normal. They always turn the ringers off at night so the girls can rest. There’s no distress call or anything. It’s probably nothing, but do you want me to call Eric or Max or someone to go check things out?”

Thomas slowed the truck and zipped into a right-turn lane. “Nah, I got this. I’m only three blocks away from there right now.”

This wouldn’t hold him up long. The guard probably dozed off or something, but the alert still had to be checked out. Might as well, since he was so close.

Right, he thought. And his sudden enthusiasm for false alarms had nothing at all to do with Josh and Amanda.

He was still muttering contempt for his newfound yellow streak when he arrived at the facility. Ridley and Nicole’s unit was toward the back, and he drove faster than he ought to have through the lot, chirping over a speedbump before pulling into an open space.

A quick check yielded no sign of trouble. He could see a light in the front window, same as usual. Door closed, nothing and no one moving. Better make sure everything was as peaceful inside as it was out here. He hurried toward the girls’ unit, and then tapped his knuckles lightly on the door. He’d rather not tick off the neighbors or wake the girls if at all possible.

No response. Edwin, the nurse-slash-watchman they’d hired to watch the place at night, should have answered by now.

Feeling a good old-fashioned draught of fear, Thomas closed his hand over the doorknob and twisted.

Unlocked.

Fuck. They had a problem.

Now steeling himself in case the trouble was waiting right inside the door for him, he pushed the door open and peered inside. No sign of anyone. No noise. But trouble was plain as day, now. Edwin lay hunched sideways on the couch, fast asleep. And no one slept in that crumpled position naturally.

No sign of physical injury. Drugged. Edwin was drugged. Unresponsive.

Every hair on Thomas’s body stood up, and his insides began to churn with pent-up energy. He hadn’t felt a gut reaction like this since the night Bill Dunkirk died. He did not like it, the way the adrenaline poured into his bloodstream and crackled against the inside of his skin.

He needed to calm down. He was in no immediate danger. But the girls might be. The most important thing right now was to make sure Ridley and Nicole were safe and sound. He crept past Edwin and down the hall, chewing himself out for leaving his weapon in the truck.

Nothing from Ridley’s room. The door stood open. A dim nightlight cast just enough of a glow to show him an immobile form on the bed.

Good enough for now. He moved on, checking behind himself and into every dark doorway he passed.

Before him, at the end of the hallway, Nicole’s door stood open only a crack. Bright light spilled onto the carpet. He moved carefully, soundlessly around to the hinge side, listening to the hushed voices. And immediately doubted his own sanity when he saw the scene inside.

Nicole was sitting up on the bed. She was alert. Lucid, not the blank, spacey version he was used to seeing. There was actual
Nicole
in those eyes.

Beside her, removing an IV from Nicole’s arm, was Neil Sarzo. Surgeon. Blue-chip client. One of his best friends. What the fuck was Neil doing here?

Neil taped a cotton ball over the IV site. “Almost good as new.”

“No.” Nicole peered up at him in abject adoration. “Better.”

He smiled in response. “You’re my masterpiece. The first of your kind. The best.”

What? What the hell did that mean?

Nicole asked, “When do I get to prove it?”

“Tonight. A lot’s been going on while you were away. Yvette’s gone completely off the rails. She’s planning something big, but her lieutenants are planning a mutiny. Except I think it’s time for Tony and Brent to go, too. Don’t you?”

Jesus. Neil had just corroborated everything in Jerod’s note.

Thomas latched onto the names. Tony and Brent. Tony Prosper and Brent Johnson. Tony had to be Brandon Brigg’s bodyguard, the one Gregory Hughes had been after. And Brent was the IT guy they’d fired, interrogated by Derek, missing for weeks now.

Nicole’s eyes hardened into ice chips. “Hell yes, it’s time. They killed Derek.”

“They did. And your test is to avenge him.”

“Gladly.”

The Suit in Thomas ticked answers off their list of questions. The soldier in him staggered. Not Neil. Neil could not be involved in this. Neil had saved his life, for fuck’s sake. What the hell was he supposed to do? Burst in there and arrest him?

Or maybe he could slip back into shadow. Follow them. Find out what the hell was really going on, here. Call for backup and finally catch Yvette Prescott and Brent Johnson.

He was about to back down the hallway and call Helen when Nicole asked a vital question.

“So what’s the setup? How are Tony and Brent planning to get rid of Yvette? Did someone find her, finally?”

“She resurfaced on her own a couple weeks ago. She’s got some crazy shit planned for Brandon Briggs. She’s staging her woman-in-white fantasy, the one she used to do with Derek all the time. Only with the real thing, this time.”

Nicole scoffed. “But Brandon stopped trusting Tony, even before I went to sleep. How will Yvette capture Brandon without Tony’s help?”

“Won’t take much. One text from Thomas’s girlfriend, and Brandon’ll come running.”

“What?” Nicole squawked. “Amanda?”

Thomas’s heart stopped. No. Oh, hell, no. That text from Amanda. What if she hadn’t sent it herself?

“Yeah. Not cool,” Neil grumbled. “I wish we could do something about that, but…”

While Thomas’s temper nearly sent him into the room to snap Neil’s neck, Nicole responded. “Is Tony suicidal? If anything happens to Amanda, he’s a dead man. Josh and Thomas will hunt us all like deer.”

“Don’t worry. Tony plans to take out Josh and Thomas right along with Yvette.”

Nicole sounded outraged. “You like these people. They’re your friends. How can you let Tony get away with that?”

Neil raised cold, hard eyes. “I wasn’t going to, but my luck can’t hold forever, Nic. Thomas will find out about me eventually. Maybe it’s for the best if we just… let Tony take care of the problem for us.”

That one took the air from Thomas’s lungs. Stunned, and more hurt than he could stand to admit, he took one silent step backward. Then two. Neil and Nicole were so intent on their slimy battle plans that they never even sensed he was there.

He backed the rest of the way down the hall, through the living room and out the front door, torn between what he wanted to do and what needed to be done. He wanted to get to Amanda. But he needed to think like a Suit and contain this situation.

He had options. He had an FBI contingent at his disposal. Fantasy Heights security, too, but it would take both groups time to mobilize. Too slow. Plus two mobs of people converging on a scene their enemy had time to prepare. This oncoming multi-car collision brought back memories of Bill insisting Dixon was harmless, right before they got blown up.

No way could he let that happen again. The need to go after Amanda had become an actual physical ache strong enough to snap his bones. He did the smart thing and dialed Helen’s number while pulling out of the lot, careful not to let his tires bark over the speedbumps. But once he was on the road, he put the pedal down.

Helen took it all like a champ. She agreed that Amanda’s message was a trap. And Helen agreed they had to proceed with extreme caution. She would mobilize everyone and cover all the bases. He would just head for Amanda and scout things out. Shoot anything that moved.

As soon as he hung up with Helen, he dialed Josh. No answer.

Son of a bitch.

Racing down the highway, he reached over to the glove box for his weapon.

Amanda woke to an argument. And the strong smell of gasoline.

A woman’s voice scratched at the fog. Upset. Angry. “God, that gas stinks. And why isn’t Bishop here? He should have been here a long time ago. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Tony responded. “I’ll go find out right after you explain your plans for Lily.”

“I have no plans for Lily. I’m only keeping Brandon. The wife dies with the rest.”

“No. That was not part of the deal.”

“Why? Because you want Lily for yourself?”

Amanda cracked an eyelid. More lucid now, she had better control of her wits. She almost wished she didn’t. Danger. All those strange bits and pieces of memory were stacking up. Tony was bad. Brent Johnson was bad.

Panic jetted a bright, hot burst of adrenaline into her system, and the rush made her head swim so badly that at first, when she saw the woman standing before her in a white suit, she believed Kay Prescott-Taylor had returned from the dead.

Not true. Not Kay. That was Yvette. If it was true that she’d had plastic surgery to better resemble Kay, the doctor hadn’t gotten things quite right. The eyes were all wrong. Eyebrows, too.

The woman stalked into better view, toward a rigidly angry Tony. “You really need to stop mistaking crazy for stupid. I know you want Lily for yourself. But you’ll never have her. Without the drugs, she still loves her husband.”

“Whatever. If you’re gonna have your office fantasy with Brandon, you’d best get on it. You won’t get another chance once Bishop surfaces.”

Oh, God. The fantasy. What was happening? Amanda was starting to understand what they were saying. Starting to understand how much danger she and Brandon were in.

“There’s no time,” Yvette complained. “You gave Brandon too much sedative. He’s still not awake enough.”

This time, Brent spoke. “Always excuses.”

They continued to argue, Brent and Tony taunting Yvette about not being brave enough to play out the fantasy herself, always using stand-ins instead.

Every survival instinct clamped down on Amanda for control. Drawing any attention to herself would not end well. And she might be able to sneak out if they continued to argue amongst themselves. They had never tied her down. The chemical cocktail Shelley had slipped into her drink had been the perfect restraint until now.

She slowly, carefully tested her hands’ response, closing them into loose fists to make sure they were finally following her commands. Still sluggish, but much better. Her feet, too, were still dodgy, but she could feel the returning strength of thigh muscles now. She should be able to walk fine, provided she could keep her balance.

Lashes lowered, she examined what she could see of her surroundings. And her escape plan died a swift death when her gaze reached the end of the table where a familiar red t-shirt and much-loved blond head waited.

Josh. He sat on a wooden chair. A support beam stood right behind the chair, and with Josh’s arms drawn back that way, he was probably bound to it. His head lolled forward. Out cold. And no way in hell was she leaving this mad place without him.

Hurry, Thomas. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Something inside hardened. She wished it had stayed in the background. Fatal, accursed doubt rose up, gathering into a shadowy memory of Shelley. Amanda didn’t want to believe her. Thomas wouldn’t have helped her. But what if he had?

Don’t be so gullible, she told herself. That was exactly the sort of destruction Yvette and her ilk relied upon. And yes, maybe something had come up and Thomas didn’t realize what was happening to her and Josh. She couldn’t wait on him, but she wouldn’t let these people shake her faith in Thomas, either. If she gave in, they’d already won.

She widened her search, seeking the farther, dark corners. Something strange. Red five-gallon gas tanks strapped to the walls. Two of them, nozzles pointed down, but still capped. Why was the smell of gas so strong?

As she watched, the dim light caught a glint bright enough for her to see a drop of gasoline fall from the nozzle to the ground.

Oh, God. Dripping. The cans were leaking gasoline. What, exactly, were these guys planning?

Panic threatened to take over, but she fought harder than she’d ever fought anything before. Their only hope right now was for her to stay cool. Get her bearings. Figure out how to escape while Yvette, Tony and Brent continued to bicker.

Thomas sprinted uphill, through trees, bolting across uneven, rocky ground. Advance intel on the storage barn had come courtesy of Scott Milazzo, who had somehow pulled satellite images of the site, showing him precisely where to leave his car and how to approach unseen.

The smell of gas hit him at the tree line like a thick, greasy fist.

Fuck. That was bad. That put a shorter clock on his plans, and there wasn’t time to call Helen and warn her they had an accelerant in play.

He pulled up on his momentum, shortening his strides, quieting his footfalls as he passed a pile of three empty gas containers tossed near a tree. Fifteen gallons of gas had been spilled out here, somewhere. Great.

He had to find a way into the shed. Not difficult. A slat door stood ajar, spilling light in a line pointing to three vehicles parked on a rutted circle of gravel.

In the distance, he could hear an engine. Someone driving in fast from the county road. He hoped to God that was Max and Eric, or someone similarly armed and dangerous—and on their side. He was screwed if that was Neil and Nicole already.

As Thomas neared the shed, his gut bottomed out. It was the door that did it. The wood was old. Dry with age, bleached gray by sunlight. Even without the gas, the wood was an inferno waiting to happen.

Maybe he should just go in there and shoot first, explain later. Better he take Tony and Brent down fast than give them any chance to get a shot off.

Moving silent now, he brought himself alongside the door. Already, he could hear them. Voices raised. Arguing.